


Entranced

by aislingdoheanta



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislingdoheanta/pseuds/aislingdoheanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras finds out information about Grantaire and how talented he is. He's not entirely sure what to do with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entranced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yougottalivetoseeit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yougottalivetoseeit/gifts).



> Actual Prompt: Modern AU, cute-ish piningjolras where nobody's too much of an ass? Bonus points if there's exuberant Courf and smart logical scientific Ferre helping out Enjolras sort his confusing feelings out ;)
> 
>  
> 
> I hope it's at least close to what you wanted!

It started with the green beanie.

Technically it started the first time Grantaire came to one of their meetings. He had wandered in laughing, trailing after Bahorel. Enjolras had been entirely distracted by his laugh that he hadn’t remembered to actually call the meeting to a start. Luckily Combeferre was right there, effortlessly calling for everyone’s attention.

As he had listened to Combeferre talk about what they were discussing that night, Enjolras worried that he wouldn’t be able to focus and he’d end up distracted the entire night by the new man—who’d stood up to introduce himself with a slightly gruff voice, but on the quieter side as Grantaire. (R, he’d said with a laugh)

Luckily, it only took one minute and forty-two seconds before Grantaire snorted at Combeferre’s point and Enjolras dove into an argument— _discussion_ with him. Enjolras didn’t get distracted by Grantaire’s looks anymore because he was always more concerned with making sure his arguments were fool proof and waiting around for Grantaire to start tearing them apart.

But then the Thing happened.

It was a regular Wednesday, the day of their usual meetings. Enjolras had everything planned and ready to go for their discussion that day. It was going to be rather intense because it dealt with the death penalty, specifically why certain people are allowed to determine who lives and dies and how those people are chosen. He didn’t expect a lot of rebuttal from his friends, after all they were normally on par with him, but he was worried about Grantaire’s argument. Even when he agreed with Enjolras, which was few and far between, he _still_ argued with him.

It was really great practice for all of his debates since his opponents were never as thorough as Grantaire, nor as sarcastic. That was why Enjolras didn’t begrudge Grantaire too much for his devil’s advocacy.

Needless to say, Enjolras was entirely prepared for their discussion until Grantaire walked in wearing the Green Beanie.

It wasn’t like Grantaire hadn’t ever worn it before. It wasn’t like Enjolras hadn’t ever seen him in that exact same beanie dozens of times prior to this time. But some how, it was different.

Distractingly different.

Enjolras’ mouth went dry and he felt himself flush. For a second he wondered if he should go consult Joly, just in case he was coming down with something, but thought better of it. There wasn’t any reason to worry the man when it was probably nothing.

Enjolras was worried because his thoughts were not as coherent as they’d been before Grantaire had arrived. He wondered how easily Grantaire was going to be able to tear everything apart.

Luck was on Enjolras’ side that night because Grantaire didn’t argue with him, so much as point out the opposition. It wasn’t a discussion really. It was more like Grantaire was lecturing him on all the different ways people can fight for it.

It was different, obviously, but also nice. It was kind of wonderful to not have one of them leaving in a huff at the end of the night—that was normally Enjolras since Grantaire just couldn’t ever see how _wrong_ he was.

That night something changed between them. Well, something changed with the way Enjolras saw—thought of—Grantaire.

* * *

The next time it happened was when Enjolras noticed the tattoos peeking out from Grantaire’s shirt, both near the collar and at the wrist.

Enjolras wondered if both of his arms were covered in tattoos. If they were full sleeves like Bahorel or lines of poetry like Jehan. Did they tell a story or were they just a bunch of pictures?

He found himself distracted by them throughout the entire meeting. And the next meeting. And the next. He just couldn’t seem to get them out of his mind.

At the fourth meeting since the Tattoo Reveal, as Enjolras had named it, he finally caved and decided to ask his two best friends, casually, about Grantaire’s tattoos.

Enjolras sat down next to them and nodded toward Bahorel and Grantaire’s table in the corner. “Did Bahorel get a new tattoo?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Combeferre said as he scribbled out a revision on his paper.

“Oh,” Enjolras said. He paused.

“I didn’t know Grantaire had tattoos,” he added casually after a moment.

Courfeyrac answered him this time. “Really? I thought everyone knew. He’s not exactly subtle about them or when he gets a new one.”

“How long has he had them?” Enjolras asked, trying to casually lean back in his chair to remain nonchalant.

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac said. “I think he’s had tattoos since we’ve known him.”

“Mmm.” Enjolras bit his lip and took his eyes away from Grantaire and asked casually, “What are his tattoos of?”

(It should be noted that Enjolras is anything but casual. He burns with a passion and is direct in everything he does. While every one of his friends know this, Enjolras himself, does not.)

So when both Courfeyrac and Combeferre looked at him with raised eyebrows, Enjolras didn’t realize what they were both thinking.

“You should just go and ask him, if you’re so curious,” Combeferre suggested.

“I’m not that curious. Just…a little curious,” Enjolras finished with a frown. “I just hadn’t realized that he had them and that’s all.”

“Just go and ask him!” Courfeyrac told him. “He loves talking about them.”

“Just leave it alone, Courf. I don’t want to pry, I was merely curious,” Enjolras told him.

To be honest, the thought of actually _seeing_ the tattoos was a little too much for Enjolras to handle right now. He wasn’t sure why or what that meant. He assumed it had to do with not wanting to overstep on any boundaries Grantaire had.

Courfeyrac, however, didn’t accept that as an end to the discussion.

“R!” He shouted across the room. “Can you come and show us your tattoos?”

Grantaire looked puzzled for a minute before standing up to walk over. “You’ve seen them before, Courf.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “I know, but they are amazing. And Enjolras hasn’t seen your new ones.”

“I thought you said there weren’t any new ones,” Enjolras hissed at Courfeyrac before Grantaire was in front of them.

“How else did you want me to explain it?” Courfeyrac hiss back. “’Hey Grantaire, Enjolras can’t stop thinking about your tattoos and wants to see them and run his fingers along them and learn all the stories?’”

Enjolras felt his face heat but refused to back down from his glare at Courfeyrac. “I said no such thing!”

Courfeyrac was about to reply when Combeferre spoke up. “Have you gotten any new ones recently?”

Enjolras whipped his head around to see Grantaire close enough that he might have heard Courfeyrac’s ridiculous claims.

“Not since Medusa, no,” Grantaire responded.

He either didn’t hear or was going to ignore it. Either way, Enjolras was happy.

Grantaire rolled up both his sleeves and Enjolras felt like he couldn’t breathe. They were pictures and words, symbols, scattered across his arms but somehow still connected. It reminded Enjolras of some sort of abstract art or those form poems Jehan had been trying recently. But everything was connected by a vine or some sort of string.

Enjolras hasn’t realized tattoos could be so beautiful and actually tell a story. Sure, he’d seen the work on Bahorel’s arms or Feuilly’s arm band and Jehan’s swirls and words and Eponine’s jagged pieces, but those weren’t the same. They were clearly done a very talented individual but Grantaire’s were beautiful. It felt almost like Grantaire was pulling pieces of his soul and placing them where all the world could see.

He wanted to be paying attention to the discussion that Courfeyrac and Grantaire were currently having, but Enjolras’ focus was caught on where Courfeyrac was gently tracing one of the lines down Grantaire’s arm. Enjolras kind of wanted to rip if off because Courfeyrac clearly didn’t understand how important these were.

Grantaire, however, paid the fingers no mind.

Enjolras hadn’t been able to sleep that night, his mind was too wrapped up in colors and strings and arms that told stories.

* * *

Enjolras was trying not be distracted by Grantaire, but it was incredibly difficult. Every time he thought he had things under control, he’d remember the tattoos and then he’d forget his train of thought.

Tonight, though, Grantaire was late. Enjolras was…something. He wasn’t exactly disappointed but he also wasn’t relived. He was some strange limbo between the two.

He had been concerned over where Grantaire could be since, for all his pessimism, he rarely missed a meeting.

Bossuet must have realized the time as well because he came up to where Enjolras was sitting with his lap top. “R’s probably just running a little late since he was fencing today.”

_It would have been nice if he contacted someone to let them know so we weren’t waiting around for him._

_Thank you for the information, but I wasn’t waiting for Grantaire’s arrival. I was merely waiting for everyone to finish up their conversations to begin._

_Are you Grantaire’s keeper?_

_Do you feel it necessary to defend him to me when he clearly doesn’t care to?_

While some of those were better responses than others, none of them moved from Enjolras’ brain to his mouth. Instead he said, “I didn’t know Grantaire fenced.”

Bossuet smiled that really wide, infectious grin. “Oh yeah. He’s been doing it for a while now. He’s really good. You should go see him sometime.”

“Oh.” Out of every reaction Bossuet could have had, inviting Enjolras to one of Grantaire’s fences matches—were they called matches? Enjolras would have to look that up later—wasn’t one of them Enjolras had been prepared for. “I don’t think he’d want me there.”

Bossuet had frowned. “What do you mean? Of course he would. He—“

“Sorry! Sorry! My match went a little late and then it was impossible to get here,” Grantaire said as he practically threw his bag down and dropped in his chair. “I swear every single person in existence was out there tonight, just to make it difficult for me to get here on time.”

“It’s all right. We haven’t started yet,” Enjolras told him after almost thirty seconds of silence as Enjolras processed everything. 

“I’m honored that you waited for me, the lesser of mortals, Apollo,” Grantaire said with that smirk of his.

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras snapped. “I didn’t know you did fencing.”

Grantaire had clearly been ready with some sort of retort about Apollo, but he stopped. “Sorry?”

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s fine. I just… I just didn’t know you did that.”

“Yeah. It’s the one thing from my childhood I still do,” Grantaire said, clearly still confused as to what was happening. He wasn’t alone because Enjolras had no idea what was happening and he was the one speaking.

“I think Enjolras wants to come to one of your tournaments, Grantaire!” Courfeyrac said as he slung an arm across Enjolras’ shoulders.

Grantaire coughed before he shrugged. “You guys are always welcome.”

After another few seconds of tense silence, Combeferre spoke up. “Should we begin?”

Enjolras had walked up to the front, back on solid ground and ready for his meeting. His mind didn’t even wander once to thinking what it’d feel like to see Grantaire win, pull off that mask, and smile at him.

Not once.

* * *

Unfortunately, that fencing incident hadn’t been a one-off scenario. It turned out Grantaire wasn’t just an attractive, smart, amazing debate partner with beautiful tattoos who also happened to fence. No. He was apparently good at pretty much everything.

He’d found out Grantaire did boxing when Bahorel and he showed up to a meeting one day each carrying a bag and talking about their workout. The work out that included an impromptu boxing match because apparently that was something Grantaire did.

He boxed.

“R’s really good at it,” Bahorel said, clapping Grantaire on the back. “I guess at some point the student must become better than the teacher.”

Bahorel laughed and Grantaire shrugged him off. “I’m barely as good as you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Musichetta spoke up from her position next to Jehan who was writing a line of words down her arm. “You think I’d have chosen you over Bahorel if I thought Bahorel was better?”

“Hey!” Bahorel shouted. “I’m in the room you know.”

“I’m not saying you’re not good,” Musichetta appeased. “Everyone knows that you are. You just lack the…finesse that Grantaire has.”

“Thanks?” Grantaire questioned as he kicked at the floor.

“What?” Enjolras asked, having a hard time trying to follow the flow of conversation.

Musichetta smiled. “Grantaire’s been teaching me some boxing and self-defense tips. Bahorel’s pride is wounded that I didn’t ask him.”

“It’s not wounded,” Bahorel said with a laugh.

“That’s true,” Feuilly said from Bahorel’s side. “Everyone knows nothing short of the iceberg that sunk the Titanic could wound your ego.”

Bahorel punched him on the shoulder, but he was laughing right alongside Feuilly.

“You’re teaching it now, R?” Courfeyrac asked.

Grantaire only shrugged. “Sometimes. I mean, there’s Musichetta and occasionally I help out for some of the classes taught at my gym for extra money.”

Enjolras had a sudden mental image of Grantaire spending his free time on Saturday morning teaching a bunch of little children the proper technique and that was weird. It was a warm, almost admirable feeling that settled in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach.

Before he could really focus on it, Courfeyrac had started talking again.

“Maybe you could teach Enjolras some of your moves?” he suggested. It was a joke, obviously.

But Grantaire had looked thoughtful and shrugged. “If you ever wanted to learn, I could do that.”

Enjolras had stuttered out Thanks before rushing over to Combeferre to talk about anything else. He can’t remember what they talked about, it might have been insects or something.

Enjolras’ mind was entirely too caught up with the idea of Grantaire teaching him how to box.

* * *

Enjolras had thought about Grantaire’s offer for weeks. He kept trying to plan what he was going to say to him, how he was going to ask him.

_I would be interested in your teaching services._ That sounded way too formal.

_Boxing sounds fun. I’d like to learn._ That sounded…odd coming from Enjolras.

_Your offer still on the table?_ That sounded far too suggestive, even to Enjolras.

In the end he settled on something that blended the three together. He had actually been planning on going to talk to Grantaire, his answer written on notecards, when he decided that he didn’t really have time to learn.

He absolutely did not chicken out. Not at all.

* * *

Enjolras was doing okay at trying to keep his…fascination with Grantaire a secret. He didn’t want to cause the man concern. It wasn’t like he was stalking him or anything to find out his secrets.

He was just cataloguing all the information Grantaire shared willingly.

He preferred his coffee black (like Enjolras) in the morning, but if he drank any in the afternoon he’d add some milk and sugar.

His favorite kind of tea was Chamomile. Enjolras didn’t know why.

Grantaire loved reading and was always carrying around a book of sorts. He claims that his favorite novel is _Atlas Shrugged_ , but he talks too much about _1984_ and _Slaughterhouse Five_ for Enjolras to be absolutely certain. (It’s why, at Christmas, he’d just gotten Grantaire a new set of paints that he’d wanted instead of a nice hard-cover copy of his favorite book)

The art Grantaire drew and painted was gorgeous. Enjolras had always known that Grantaire was talented—he did design or help design most of their posters and pamphlets. Not to mention numerous cartoons drawn on scrap paper during the meetings as the Musain. But his actual art, the kind that he literally puts everything into was breathtaking.

Enjolras had gone to Grantaire and Bosseut’s flat (which really now included Musichetta and Joly) to get something from Musichetta when he had seen some of the paintings on the wall. She told him they were all Grantaire’s because no way in hell was she going to pay for someone else’s art when she had the next world famous artist living in the next room.

Enjolras wondered what Grantaire was thinking when he painted. He wanted to see everything Grantaire had ever created.

Grantaire was also a great gymnast according to Eponine, though not as good as her but pretty damn close. Grantaire had pushed at her shoulder and told her he wasn’t even half as good as her. Enjolras had stupidly blurted out a question of why he did gymnastics. Grantaire had seemed surprised Enjolras was even taking an interest before telling him that he’d started a few years ago when Eponine didn’t want to go alone to this new place. 

Apparently he was a natural, something Eponine was only slightly annoyed at.

Courfeyrac has caught Enjolras eye and smirked as he said that Grantaire must be incredibly flexible. He whispered the “in bed” part only to Enjolras. Enjolras had choked on his coffee and had to excuse himself to the bar to get some water. And if he stayed out there to catch his breath and get that visual out of his head, so be it.

He was learning a lot about Grantaire.

* * *

Cosette didn’t have to tell Enjolras Grantaire was a terrific dancer. That he discovered on his own.

He had wandered into the back room of the Musain and found Grantaire and Cosette dancing. Enjolras hadn’t even noticed the music in the background since he’d been so engrossed in the article he was reading and disagreeing with in his mind.

Enjolras had nearly dropped said article as he saw Grantaire twirling Cosette flawlessly around the room. They had obviously moved the few tables and chairs out of the way to make more of a practice space.

Grantaire was elegant and smooth as he danced with a determined but warm expression on his face. He looked at Cosette like there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Seeing that felt like someone just kicked him in the stomach, but Enjolras ignored it.

“He’s great, isn’t he?” Cosette asked when she caught sight of Enjolras still standing in the doorway. He was clutching the newspaper way too tightly though none of them mentioned it.

“I only look good because _you_ are amazing,” Grantaire said as he dipped her gently, the song ending.

“I think you’re good.” Enjolras’ mouth really needs to stop this habit of saying things he wasn’t planning on when around Grantaire.

To Enjolras’ surprise, Grantaire’s ears turned pink and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks, but I’m really not.”

Cosette rolled her eyes. “Yes. Yes, you are.” She pointed at Enjolras. “Even Enjolras thinks so and you know his word is gospel for you.”

“Wait, what?” Enjolras asked, completely confused.

Courfeyrac and Jehan used that moment to flourish—there is no other word for it that Enjolras could think of to describe it—into the room. Neither Grantaire nor Cosette made any move to answer Enjolras’ question.

“Dance lessons for the happy couple?” Courfeyrac had said. “Cosette, are you teaching the two grooms how to not fall over or step on each other’s feet during their first dance.”

Cosette laughed and Grantaire had an uneasy smile. But Enjolras went on the attack.

“Grantaire is a perfectly capable dancer in his own right,” Enjolras told Courfeyrac. “He doesn’t need any lessons.”

“You hear that, R?” Courfeyrac asked. “You are perfectly capable of not stepping on Enjolras’ feet. You think Enjolras can keep up with you for your first dance?”

Everyone laughed but Enjolras who was suddenly struck with the thought of dancing _with_ Grantaire. He thought about Grantaire gently leading him around the dance floor, his arms sure and solid around him and keeping Enjolras close. He probably was warm and obviously knew what he was doing.

He wondered if Grantaire would try to keep it from being obvious that Enjolras had next to no rhythm when it came to dancing. Grantaire would definitely laugh at him, but he would also probably try to keep it a secret whenever Enjolras would mess up.

Enjolras’ dreams suddenly involved a lot of dancing.

* * *

Enjolras nearly died when he heard Grantaire speaking Italian. His heart practically stopped before increasing in speed so much he could feel it pounding in his ears.

Grantaire was sitting there at the bar of the Musain waiting for his drink while he chatted to a pretty Italian couple standing next to him.

“He’s fluent in Italian, French, and Latin,” Marius had said from beside him. “He’s the one Joly and Combeferre go to for help whenever they run across certain words they don’t understand the root of. He doesn’t really care that it’s a dead language though.”

Enjolras had to swallow a few times since his throat had suddenly gone dry. “I thought you were the one who studied language and different languages.”

Marius laughed. “I am, but Grantaire has me beat.”

“How does he speak so many languages?” Enjolras asked.

“I know he has Italian family members, so he’s been speaking that since he was a child. French and Latin he just picked up through school. He’s learning Spanish from Musichetta. He’s also working on his Greek with Jehan.”

“Oh.”

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel wander over to their little table and immediately start talking about the different languages they’d like to learn someday. Courfeyrac said he’d like to learn Welsh which made Bahorel laugh.

“You all right, Enjolras?” Combeferre asked quietly as he touched Enjolras’ arm.

“Did you know Grantaire can speak French?” Enjolras asked him.

Combeferre blinked. “So can you.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Not like him. And he speaks Italian. Italian!”

Combeferre sighed. “I’m not sure why that has meaning, if I’m honest with you.”

“Italian is a beautiful language,” Enjolras admitted after a minute.

“Yes?” Combeferre added, clearly unsure where the conversation was headed or why it was happening to begin with.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac called our from Enjolras side. “Enjolras wants to hear you speak Italian to him.”

Grantaire frowned. “Okay?”

“No,” Enjolras said, trying to cut Courfeyrac off. “I just didn’t know that you spoke it so fluently.”

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s really not a big deal. My mom’s Italian and I have a lot of relatives over in Italy so I sort of grew up speaking it.”

“It’s still really impressive.”

Grantaire’s ears turned pink and he looked down.

“Say something dirty in Italian!” Courfeyrac prodded him, elbowing Enjolras in the side.

Grantaire frowned but it was more thoughtful than anything. “Like what?”

“Like I want to have you so badly that I’d take you right here on this table,” Courfeyrac suggested. “Or something like that.”

“Really, Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asked him.

“Say it to Enjolras!” Courfeyrac challenged, both Grantaire and Enjolras.

Enjolras froze but he could feel Grantaire’s gaze on him.

“Fine. But I’m going to change it a little,” Grantaire said.

“As you wish,” Courfeyrac said, his grin nearly manic.

Enjolras turned to Grantaire, feeling his heart in his throat.

“Il mio amore mi ha reso egoista. Non posso vivere senza te,” Grantaire said softly, but fiercely. He moved his hand and for a wonderful, terrifying second, Enjolras thought he might reach out and touch him. But he was just shoving it in his pocket.

“Se solo riuscissi a trovare il coraggio di dirtelo con parole mie, invece di Prenderle in prestito da qualcun altro. Magari in una lingua che avresti capito,” Grantaire finished quietly, looking away from Enjolras.

English sounded harsh to his ears after that day.

* * *

It was a few days after that night with the Italian that Enjolras confronted Combeferre.

He was studying at their kitchen table, obviously waiting for his food to finish cooking.

“Grantaire is pretty smart, wouldn’t you say?” Enjolras asked him as he sat down across from his friend.

Comebeferre frowned and set his book to the side. “Of course.”

“But not only with art and languages.” Enjolras tried not to let his eyes wander too much.

“Not only with those, no,” Combeferre hesitantly agreed. “He’s also pretty good with sciences and maths. But I’m not sure—“ Enjolras interrupted him.

“So he’s good at Art, Languages, Math, Science. He can box and dance and do gymnastics.” Enjolras sighed. “Is there anything he can’t do?”

Combeferre thought for a moment. “I don’t think he can whistle.”

Enjolras groaned because that was no help. Enjolras couldn’t whistle either.

Combeferre reached out to touch Enjolras’ hand. “Is everything all right?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just…can’t stop thinking about Grantaire and everything that he can do and it’s…distracting.”

“Is it jealousy? Are you jealous that Grantaire can do certain things that you’ve always wanted to?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras thought about that. He was…envious in a way. Not that Grantaire could do all those things, but more because everyone else had apparently known just how amazing Grantaire was. Enjolras was only finding that out now.

And everything new he learned about Grantaire just caused this strange ache in him. It wasn’t painful, just there and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Enjolras glanced at Combeferre. He didn’t want to lie to his best friend, but he also wasn’t sure what he’d make of Enjolras’ confession. So he just sighed instead.

“Maybe.”

“It’s okay to admire Grantaire,” Combeferre said. “And if you’re admiring him in an attempt to get closer to him, that’s okay too.”

Enjolras hadn’t known what to say to that.

* * *

It had been almost nine months since the Green Beanie incident. Technically it was eight months, three weeks, and two days exactly since the Green Beanie incident. Though it wasn’t like Enjolras was counting or anything.

Enjolras was distracted. It was becoming a worrying trend and he didn’t know exactly what to do.

He also didn’t know what to do with all this information about Grantaire he suddenly seemed to have. Was it normal to have this much information about your friends? Could he even consider Grantaire a friend since they rarely spoke outside of meetings?

Did Grantaire consider him a friend?

All of this worrying was causing Enjolras to stress himself out. It wasn’t too much of a surprise when he caught a cold/flu thing during the week.

Joly tried to make him wear a mask at the meeting. Enjolras said that he’d let Combeferre lead the meeting and he’d just observe. He had every intention of listening and taking notes so next week he could address anything he felt he needed to address next week.

Unfortunately, his body had other plans because he ended up falling asleep.

“Enjolras?”

Something was rubbing at his back and Enjolras wanted to arch into it. He picked up his head and blinked, trying to clear his vision.

“What?”

Grantaire was right next to him. He was the one rubbing Enjolras’ back and trying to wake him up gently.

“It’s time to get you home,” he said quietly. 

Enjolras looked around and saw everyone else was still talking and discussing things. “But the meeting—“

“Will continue without your presence,” Grantaire interrupted smoothly and began helping Enjolras stand.

“What’s going on?” Enjolras asked as he watched Grantaire pick up Enjolras’ bag and slung it over his own shoulder.

“I’m going to escort you home and make sure you get some actual rest,” Grantaire told him as he took his elbow and started leading him out of the room.

“Why?”

“’Cause you’re sick and clearly incapable of taking care of yourself.” Grantaire gestured to the room. “Say goodbye to your ill and weary leader, everyone.”

There were shouts but Enjolras couldn’t take his eyes away from Grantaire. (He’d be told later that he was looking at Grantaire as though he had grown an extra head. Enjolras wasn’t sure what to make of that)

Their journey to Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment was mostly silent, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Grantaire kept his arm around Enjolras and he enjoyed the feeling too much to even attempt to break away.

When they got to his apartment, Grantaire told Enjolras to go and change and he’d make him a cup of tea.

Enjolras’ thoughts were swirling around and he wasn’t able to really focus. He took the medicine Grantaire gave him and drank the tea as he listened to Grantaire ramble about something, but he just couldn’t seem to focus.

“You’re so good at stuff.” Apparently, he could still speak.

Grantaire paused. “What?”

Enjolras set his nearly empty mug down. “You’re just so good at everything. It’s weird.”

“Weird? That I’m good at a few things?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shook his head and picked at the table. “No. It’s just…You’re good at like everything.”

Grantaire hesitated. “Thanks.”

“You don’t believe me,” Enjolras accused seeing Grantaire looking away.

“I think you’re mind isn’t working the way it normally does,” Grantaire said instead.

“No. It’s fine.” Enjolras didn’t know what else to say so he just finished his tea. Why didn’t Grantaire see how talented he was?

“I saw some of your paintings,” Enjolras said as Grantaire cleaned up the kitchen—well, the mug Enjolras used.

Grantaire stiffened but didn’t make any noise or turn away from the sink.

“Yeah. The ones that Musichetta put up in your apartment. You’re so talented.” Enjolras laughed. “I don’t know anything about art, but I really liked them. It felt like…kinda like…a horcrux.”

“A horcrux?” Grantaire asked as he turned around and leaned against the counter. Both of his eyebrows were raised in question.

“Not like the evil kind,” Enjolras said. 

“I’m pretty sure there’s not a _good_ kind of horcruxes,” Grantaire argued.

Enjolras waved him off. “That’s not the point. The point is that it’s like seeing little pieces of your soul in your art.”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “That’s what art is.”

“Yeah?” Enjolras said as he leaned back in the chair.

“It’s about finding that part of yourself that is trying to speak out and letting that part be heard,” Grantaire said. “And hopefully someone will see it and understand exactly what’s being said.”

“Is it like that with the dancing and flips and fighting and talking to pretty tourists in Italian and not liking Olives and preferring to drink coffee?” Enjolras said quietly. It was phrased as a question, but he wasn’t expecting an answer.

It took a few minutes before Grantaire broke the silence. “No. It’s more like your words.”

“My tirades,” Enjolras corrected. Grantaire always called them that.

Grantaire shook his head. “No. Your speeches always do what you want them to do, but you don’t seem to understand just how much force your words have behind them.”  
  
Enjolras tilted his head to the side.

“You know exactly what words to use to make your audience see things a certain way, but you also use exactly the right tone to help your audience _feel_ things like you do.” Grantaire laughed. “You have a way of opening yourself so visibly when you speak that people have almost no choice but to follow you.”

“Is that how you feel?” Enjolras asked quietly.

Grantaire smiled softly. “To me it’s like being entranced in a siren’s song. I know where it’s going to lead and remain entrapped anyway. Though I did search you out, so being entranced is just as much my fault as it is yours.” 

“You’re entranced by me.” Enjolras said. It wasn’t a question, more like a surprising statement.

Grantaire didn’t answer and Enjolras was mostly glad he didn’t.

“All right, Apollo, off to Olympus for you.” Grantaire grabbed his arm and hauled him to his room.

Enjolras let himself be man handled into bed and tucked in because his mind was hazy with Grantaire and the medicine and sleep actually sounded really amazing.

“Thanks for helping me,” Enjolras said quietly as Grantaire turned to go.

“Of course,” Grantaire said. “Every god needs a mortal to worship it.”

“I’m not a god,” Enjolras argued.

“Obviously not,” Grantaire agreed. “Gods don’t fall ill to the common cold.”

“I—“ Enjolras was once again cut off by Grantaire.

“Get some rest, Enjolras,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras isn’t sure how to categorize the loss and loneliness that surrounded him when he heard the apartment door shut and lock as Grantaire left.

* * *

It was a few weeks after the cold and Enjolras was still trying to put his plan in effect.

After he’d fully healed, Enjolras had sat down with Combeferre and talked everything over. He mentioned his feelings whenever Grantaire was around and what he wanted to do. Combeferre, like the amazingly wonderful friend he is, helped take it apart and tried to build it back up in a way that Enjolras understood.

Enjolras was so preoccupied with Grantaire because he didn’t seem to see how wonderful he was. As soon as Grantaire could see how amazing everyone else thought him to be, Enjolras would be able to rest easier. (Combeferre had actually been trying to get Enjolras to see that he had maybe developed some sort of feelings for Grantaire, but denial was a heavy thing. He knew Enjolras would see it eventually.)

The next few weeks Enjolras kept a constant vigilance over any opportunities to tell Grantaire how amazing he was.

Whenever he spoke in another language, Enjolras would smile at him. (Grantaire always looked confused)

Enjolras took every opportunity to compliment his sketches. (Grantaire would always roll his eyes but say thanks)

It was a lot harder to work in anything else because Grantaire didn’t exactly talk about it.

He wasn’t sure things were going to work out in his favor until the one night Grantaire left a small painting behind.

Enjolras found it, resting against the chair Grantaire had been sitting against.

It was beautiful. It was clearly a reinterpretation of Liberty Leading the People, one of the few pieces Enjolras actually knew. Instead of Lady Liberty (Marianne, Enjolras remembered), it was Enjolras, or a strange Enjolras hybrid person standing in the middle of the painting, a red flag draped around him. There were people around him—Enjolras recognized the features that made up Joly and Combeferre and everyone else.

The difference was that Enjolras wasn’t _leading_ them. They were moving _toward_ him. He was the beacon that was calling the people to him.

Enjolras turned it over and saw a small title:  _Liberty calling the people to rise._

He turned it back over and searched for any person that resembled Grantaire but couldn’t find anything except the green _R_ carved into the bottom corner.

Enjolras looked down and saw a little note from Grantaire:  _If I’m as talented as you think I am, you’ll understand what I am saying here. R_

Enjolras clutched the note and the painting tightly to himself as he walked back to his apartment. Thankfully Combeferre was still up and waiting for him.

Enjolras nearly threw the painting at him. “What does this mean?”

Combeferre studied it. “It’s really good. Did Grantaire paint this for you?”

Enjolras groaned. “Yes. But what does it mean?"

“I’m not sure it means anything,” Combeferre said.

“It does. He said that it does.” Enjolras didn’t want to show him the note. That felt too private for some reason.

“Okay. Clearly it’s you leading the people,” Combeferre suggested.

“No. I’m calling to the people,” Enjolras corrected.

He studied the painting and asked, “Do you see Grantaire anywhere in this? Everyone else is here. He should be.”

“You are looking for Grantaire in the painting because…” Combeferre trailed off.

“It’ll explain what he is saying to me,” Enjolras finished, his eyes still tracking over the painting.

“What if he’s not in the painting?”

Enjolras’ head snapped up. “What?”

Combeferre sighed. “What if he’s not in the painting? What could he be saying then?”

“If he’s not in the painting?” Enjolras asked.

“Could he be referring to the fact that he feels on the outside?” Combeferre suggested. “That this is the way he sees you but just can’t seem to picture himself in the same space?”

Enjolras thought about that. But that didn’t make sense. Because if Grantaire saw Enjolras and all of their friends like this, why didn’t Grantaire paint himself right beside them?

“I think,” Combeferre said after a few minutes. “That Grantaire sees himself as the observer. He sees the great things you could accomplish but doesn’t see himself as being able to be a part of it.”

“That’s ridiculous. I want him to be a part of everything.” Enjolras paused.

Combeferre just waited patiently.

“Oh my god,” Enjolras whispered. “I think I have feelings for Grantaire.”

“I am absolutely positive you have feelings for Grantaire and have for quite some time,” Combeferre told him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Enjolras demanded.

“I tried, but you didn’t want to see it.”

“What do I do now?” Enjolras asked him.

Combeferre looked at him. “I’d say telling him is a good next move.”

“How do I do that?” Enjolras asked.

“Grantaire was clearly trying to get you understands how he views things. Maybe you should try something similar,” Combeferre suggested.

Grantaire’s words came rushing back to him. _You have a way of opening yourself so visibly when you speak that people have almost no choice but to follow you._

And he knew what he needed to do.

Enjolras wrote furiously, filling up page after page of details about Grantaire. He told him how Grantaire makes him feel and the way he’s changed the way Enjolras sees things.

At the end, it’s five pages long and Enjolras has no idea if it’s even coherent. But it’s not about making a perfect speech. It was about letting himself go and writing whatever came directly from the heart.

Enjolras gave it to Grantaire at the end of the next meeting. He’d thanked Grantaire for the painting at the beginning of it. He’d pretty much thrown the letter at Grantaire before rushing out.

There was a difference between putting your heart and soul into a speech and putting all that into a very personal letter to someone.

Thankfully Enjolras didn’t have to wait long because Grantaire caught up with him minutes after Enjolras left the café. He was wheezing and slightly out of breath.

“Did you run to find me? You know where I live,” Enjolras said, trying to avoid talking about the letter that had clearly upset Grantaire. “We could have talked at your leisure.”

“My favorite tea is Chamomile because when I was little, my grandmother would always give me a cup when I couldn’t sleep because of nightmares. She’d say that it was a special tea that kept the monsters and scary thing away. I know it’s not true, but there’s something calming and comforting about drinking it now,” Grantaire said quietly.

“What?” Enjolras asked, only vaguely aware of his fingernails biting into his own palm.

“You told me you wanted to know why Chamomile tea was my favorite. There’s your answer,” Grantaire said.

“You ran all this way to tell me that?” Enjolras asked.

“That and to make sure you didn’t change your mind,” Grantaire admitted and the usual smirk that was directed toward Enjolras was back.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t change my mind,” Enjolras told him.

Grantaire reached up to grab Enjolras’ wrist, his face serious again. “May I?”

Enjolras nodded, even though he was unsure of the actual question. He would have let Grantaire do pretty much anything at the moment, just as long as he didn’t go away.

Grantaire pulled Enjolras close, slotting their bodies together, before reaching up and gently pressing his lips to Enjolras’.

It was so much more than anything Enjolras had experienced before and it left him breathless. Luckily he had Grantaire there to catch him if he fell.

**Author's Note:**

> Grantaire's Italian: My love has made me selfish. I can not live without you  
> If only I could find the courage to tell you in my own words , instead of borrowing from someone else. Maybe in a language you'd understand.
> 
> I have the idea that Grantaire was bemoaning his feelings for Enjolras with Jehan who threw Keats at him saying that he'd found someone who was just as dramatic as Grantaire. (Let's face it. Grantaire is a dramatic, romantic sap.)
> 
> The line from Keats is from one of his letters to Fanny Brawne: My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you.


End file.
